Long Gangrene Poems
Long Gangrene Poems. Below are the most popular long Gangrene by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gangrene poems by poem length and keyword.
Juz ain't right, I'm tired of it
Foot frozen, can't feel ma' toes
Just short of frost bite gangrene and toe amputation
Started squeezing coughing shaken think I got
Think sick and I'm sick of snow
Fluffy white snow fallen now frozen ice
I slip and fall on my noggin
I am sadden by the sight
A blizzard in my eye
I'm cold hurting inside
The dark frozen skies
Wonder why again this year it's a negative
Twenty-two degrees
to cold to care
wind blown hair
too dry skin
even got frozen underwear
no one to comfort my cold frozen tears
Snow storms hateing frozen rains fall N
It's WINTER I'm Blue
1/3/18
A nice veneer
Looking solid and good;
Termites devour within
Life hazards
Venture bleeding;
More vitamin M needed
Business failure
Shocking casualties;
Bankrupted parties
Spice can smell nice
But nice can tell lies;
Sometimes a vice
Impressive bungalow
Sporty car;
Heavy in debt woes
Sad but true
Vanity masquerades;
Not the real thing
Newspaper headlines
Scandal and heartbreak;
I feel sad for you
Regrets fester
Like gangrene;
Amputate the trash
Eye witness here
I watch you tumble;
Helpless to help
Impressive life
Career highlights unrivaled;
Why this bankruptcy?
Sad story
Paper described;
Can prayer alleviate?
In-between
Life and death;
Struggle for meaning
Worldly mindset
Get rich quick;
Scheming for more
Between ambition
And acquisition;
Avarice styles
To succeed well
Take failures well;
Survive persecution
Liquor and wine
Wine and dine;
Decadence flaunts
Simple vanity
Defines ambition;
Practical notions heap
And in the end
Just round the bend;
Broken trends sweep clean
Leon Enriquez
26 July 2014
Singapore
Some Say The Politicians Are all the same
Six of one , half a dozen of the next.
All controlled by the hierarchy, the illuminati.
I feel they have a point to some extent.
But still I beg to disagree.
For Some have more bad mind that others,
Some are more lie, more dangerous, more corrupt, more selfish.
Some are more tief. Some are like Gangrene.
Some are Evil Himself Satan incarnate. Soo Soo Devious.
While some make an effort, some do try.
Some will ignore the poor more.
We still should be willing to make a choice.
I just do not and cannot agree with the skeptics who claim
The System will never change.
Refuse to accept such a defeatist mentality.
You’re no longer a part of my life
Amputated
Before the gangrene
Of tortured doubts
Reached my heart
Poisoning along the way
It couldn’t be cleansed away
Or so I thought….
Cut away…
Cut away from my life
And all that remains
Is my maimed heart
And yet….
On cold and rainy days
I feel the phantom pain
Gnawing away
Alternating between
A tingling tightness
And a burning sensation
Where your presence used to be
I try to manage
To go through my day
The missing part of my life
That was your smile
Your eyes
Your body
Fused to mine
That missing part
That I feel but cannot touch
Makes me dysfunctional
And I need a crutch
A pseudo love
To get on by
The phantom pain
Won’t go away
ALWAYS THERE
A dull reminder
Of your absence
That eats at my soul
Working it's way to my heart
Poisoning along the way
Wasn't that why you were cut away?
A childish attempt to protect my heart
From the possible death of love?
Yet….how is it that I’m dying anyway…
Without you….
The missing part of my heart!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Harsh is the day, harsh is the night;
Dry and putrid, dry and decay;
Stench in the clay, stench in the sight;
Life most rancid, life on display.
Hopeless as fear, hopeless as doom;
Chaos and madness, chaos and evil;
Violence speaks clear, violence weaves gloom;
No more gladness, reign of devils.
Mortal wounds drown, mortal hurts edge;
Toil beyond sense, toil beyond hope;
Cruelty puts down, cruelty burns hedge;
Scourge of wrath tense, scourge of hate scope.
Gloomy and mad, gloomy and sad;
Rotting parts smell, rotting flesh trudge;
Gangrene makes fad, gangrene turns bad;
Evil sows hell, evil reaps grudge.
Hollow such times, hollow such chimes;
Evil dark drape, evil takes blood;
Dreary these rhymes, dreary these mimes;
Hate takes shape, hate flings harsh flood.
Hollow and dry, hollow and grey;
Dreary mad gloom, weary sad shades;
No zest to try, no sense to stay;
Death fills and grooms, death floods and raids.
Can faith and hope, can love and cheer
Outlive bleak view, outlast bad news?
Can hope fill scope, can faith purge fear?
Can love find you, can good change cues?
Bleak are the times, bleak are the signs;
Look deeper now, look within soul;
Does reason rhyme, does beauty find
Wasteland changed how, wasteland made whole?
Leon Enriquez
23 August 2014
Singapore
A week before the Armistice, you died.
They did not keep your heart like Livingstone’s,
then plant your bones near Shakespeare’s. So you lie
between two privates, sacrificed like Christ
to politics, your poetry unknown
except for that brief flurry’s: thirteen months
with Gaukroger beside you in the trench,
dismembered, as you babbled, as the stench
of gangrene filled your nostrils, till you clenched
your broken heart together and the fist
began to pulse with life, so close to death.
Or was it at Craiglockhart, in the care
of “ergotherapists” that you sensed life
is only in the work, and made despair
a thing that Yeats despised, but also breath,
a mouthful’s merest air, inspired less
than wrested from you, and which we confess
we only vaguely breathe: the troubled air
that even Sassoon failed to share, because
a man in pieces is not healed by gauze,
and breath’s transparent, unless we believe
the words are true despite their lack of weight
and float to us like chlorine—scalding eyes,
and lungs, and hearts. Your words revealed the fate
of boys who retched up life here, gagged on lies.
Published by The Chariton Review, The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Rogue Scholars, Romantics Quarterly, Mindful of Poetry, Famous Poets and Poems, Poetry Life & Times, Other Voices International
She gazed at the looking glass, but the mirror refused to grant her a preview of what might happen, a clear picture of where she had been and if she existed at all, the spectre of the moment seemed to be disguised from inspection. Coming to terms with having absorbed and condensed too many of society’s norms and demands had seemingly been her duty and the prism of requests on her image of beauty had failed her inner Self. She drooled onto the spitting image of nothingness and the slobber ran down to the frame that upheld phlegm and contempt before it trickled down onto the baseless floor founded on hardcore delusion. Diet pills and dark shades had not relieved her from a succession of errors of reason and emotion and when she had blindfolded herself, the blinkers tore deep into her misrepresentation of surrender and cosmetic denial.
scanned in revulsion
vacant echoes burst the sight –
shards of glass splintered
So many fragments pierced into her eyes, that dry tears covered the pulverized viewing and heart-blood sprayed all over her soul. A point of no return, because if she failed to stem the flow and bandage the wounds, gangrene would set it soon and salving the lacerations would only speed up infection and purulent grime. The wall in front of her blurred out of proportion and there was nothing she could do about it other than retrieving bristles and paint from the storeroom and gloss over the shiny remnants of disrepair. And therefore, she entered into a journey of the unknown, drew rose petals and thorns onto broken canvas. Before she knew it, she decoupaged disintegration and fractures, glued a mosaic of imagination to mirror what should have been there in the first place. Sweat dripped from her forehead and smudged aquarelle shades which reassembled self-worth and confronted demons and abuse. An inner voice shouted, ‘all you need is a mantra to caption the artwork which you truly are.’ That is when she wrote her first poem and became free of doubts, oppression and cynical critique.
blame discredit reproach
failed to appease me in vain –
reflections can change
26th March 2021
Commemoration for those gone before
Affectation of all you continue to adore
Altercation at the start of a burgeoning world war
Annihilation of the injured, innocent and poor
Commensurate collusion of the parliamentary debate
Irreverent confusion at the celebration of the state
Degenerate delusion as they refuse to integrate
Protectorate protrusion while the masses consecrate
Augmentation of the algorithm just to watch you bleeding concentration
Abdication of the firm decision to be needing an invitation
Applications that are stern in their derision of the cheapest imitation
Admiration of the vision that requires an invocation
Cosmological wonder at the formation of a star
Chronological plans asunder as the organisation takes things too far
Pedagogical pathways go under like the motorisation of the car
Methodological melodies make thunder as the applause acknowledges every bar
Broken by the aftermath of all this rhythmical thinking
Woken by a polymath of history missed while I was blinking
Spoken words meets sociopaths inside a ship that’s sinking
Token forms of telepathic silence that sees me winking
Altercations of a race in danger from dawn to dusk to midnight fire
Annexation of a border to cross when life inside becomes too dire
Amputation of a limb that has begun to gangrene and expire
Affectation that is over the top as my neurons need to rewired
By Elizabeth Moroz copyright
The God Who Sees, from the seed to the reap.
Not like man. He’s keen to depths of our hearts.
Our imaginings, our unholy gripes,
dissipate with our Lord’s glorious light.
The Lantern of Life certainly cares for
even our simple needs, our daily bread.
But do you think we need to spur a cause -
apple to apple - elementary
students scratch their heads at the egregious
gangrene, the implausible depiction.
The exaggeration of imagery
meant to leap off the page and boil the blood.
A blood bath of hatred ensues - bubbles
frothing - O such majesty - let’s join in…
After all, it’s the latest cause - prayers
unheard of. The God Who Sees watching us.
2/3/2021
He waltzed into the barroom
Announcing his name was Jack
He had a peg-leg, three fingers gone
And on his left eye wore a patch
His teeth that weren’t missing
Shined of glimmering gold
He ordered a bottle of whiskey
And then this story he told
He talked with an accent
That sounded really strange
Seems he mined for diamonds
In a South African mountain range
For months he lived alone there
Just him and his two mules
Digging day and night
Looking for them jewels
Says that he hurt his leg
And gangrene did set in
A village doctor amputated
Anesthesia was a case of gin
Thieves cut his fingers off
Stealing his diamond rings
But where the other rocks were hid
They could not make him sing
Now he is a rich man
Living the life of luxury
He bought drinks for everyone
Saying, “The next round is on me”
Then that grizzly old rich man
Waltzed back out the door
And the one-eyed Jack of Diamonds
Was seen never more
For Paula Swanson's, "Pick A Card" contest